


The Eve of All Saints

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit fluffy too, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family, Ghosts, Halloween, Love, M/M, party like it's 1964
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a touch of fall in the air (yeah, I know.... autumn, but I'm a Yank and 'fall' and 'Halloween' go together in my head), so my thoughts turn to Halloween - or rather, the Eve of All Saints. A ghost story of sorts in which Mrs. Hudson finally sorts everyone out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eve of All Saints

_Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what._  


~~~ Salman Rushdie, _The Satanic Verses_  


  


The poor boy. She kept forgetting that he couldn’t see her. Ironic, since he had ignored her at least half the time anyway. 

He sat at her kitchen table, looking from the bills she hadn’t had time to pay to the baking rack still holding the biscuits she had left to cool the day before yesterday. He had paced restlessly around her flat for several minutes, looking lost. Opened her bedroom closet door, touched her favorite blouse (the lilac silk) with the tip of one finger. Closed the door. Drifted into the lounge and put a hand on top of the television for a long moment. Probably thinking about all the crap telly she and John had watched over the years. Went to the window in her lounge and looked out at the slate grey October sky. He leaned his forehead for a moment against the lace curtain. He then walked slowly into the kitchen. He rested the fingers of his right hand lightly on a flowered china teacup in the drainer, long since dried. Then he had turned and sat down heavily at the little kitchen table. 

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he whispered to the empty room. Well, not quite empty, but he didn’t know that. 

Yes, it had been quick. Aneurysm. She had heard John tell Sherlock that. She had heard him reassuring a white-faced Sherlock that it probably happened in her sleep. That she hadn’t suffered. All true. She supposed she should be grateful to have missed so many of the pains and indignities of old age. Her hip didn’t even hurt anymore. Nothing hurt, except not having gotten to say goodbye. She felt light, better than she had in years, happy even. Except for the nagging worry about Sherlock and John. 

He reached out and took one of the biscuits (chocolate, his favorite) from the rack. He looked at it for a long moment, broke off a corner, and put it in his mouth. They would be stale by now. Such a shame, really. Suddenly, he dropped the biscuit, and those long, beautiful fingers came up to cover his face. Tears seeped between the fingers, then dropped onto the surface of the table. Poor boy, he thought no-one could see. But she saw. She reached out a hand and placed it on the top of the dark curls. He couldn’t feel it, of course. 

This wouldn’t do at all. One of those telly shows she and John had watched regularly when he had lived upstairs, one of the ones Sherlock made fun of, was about a woman who communicated with the dead. The medium-lady or psychic or whatever she was always said that the reason the dead people hadn’t moved on was because they had unfinished business. Well, Martha Hudson could now attest to the truth of that statement, since she was dead. She knew that she could move on anytime she wanted. She had caught a glimpse of the light the moment she died. She smiled at the memory of what she had seen in that light. Sherlock was going to be surprised, one day. But much, much later, she hoped. He had unfinished business. Now, so did she. 

~~~~  


She was touched, she really was. Sherlock had them bury her body in the very spot they had put his coffin when he had faked his death. His coffin had been empty. Hers wasn’t. Strange to think of her body down there. It was a kind thought, letting her share his plot. It made a nice connection between them, a spot she had become familiar with, visiting his grave with John and then by herself many times. It even had a nice pine tree that would shade it a bit when summer came. She had come here to talk to Sherlock more times than John suspected during the years they thought they had lost him. 

The service had been very nice. She wasn’t particularly religious, and neither were her boys. John and Sherlock, that is. Her boys. She suspected that Mycroft had arranged the service. It had the stamp of order and tradition on it. All very nice. Her son hadn’t come. He was away in America, and they’d never been close. He took after his father. Enough said. There hadn’t been many people there, but the people she loved had been. That’s all anyone could hope for in the end after all, wasn’t it? 

And now her little family, her real family, was gathered around her grave. Molly was saying something to the Detective Inspector. Such a lovely girl. Greg had his arm around her. They made a handsome couple. She hoped they realized it. Mycroft was here, too. She appreciated that. Her sister and niece had come to the service, but she could tell that Caroline wasn't well so she had understood when they left right after the service. Mrs. Turner had also come to the church, but left in tears before the burial. 

John held his little girl in his arms. He was slightly turned away from the others, looking off into the trees, brow furrowed. Mary wasn’t there, of course. So sad about Mary. She died last year when that horrible Moran person kidnapped Shae soon after she was born. Sherlock nearly died as well getting the baby back. She would see Mary soon, she knew, but John was still grieving. 

She saw in his face that he was still in love with Sherlock and still consumed with guilt and grief and confusion. Martha thought he blamed Sherlock for not being able to save Mary. Or maybe he felt guilty that he had always loved Sherlock more than Mary. That wasn’t his fault, of course. You couldn’t choose who you loved. She certainly knew that from her own experience. She had tried to tell him that once, had tried to tell both of them. Everyone could see it but them, apparently. 

John didn’t even look at Sherlock during the service. They both sat, side by side on the front pew, stone-faced, not talking. Not touching. It was absolutely ridiculous. She was so angry at both of them that she totally missed what the young priest said about her. As if he would know anything about her anyway. Life was short, Martha thought, much too short to waste on guilt and blame and misunderstanding. They needed to get it sorted, and she wasn’t leaving until they did. 

Sherlock stood back from the rest, farther from the grave, looking down at the ground. He started moving restlessly as the nice young priest finished with the last of the readings. When he got to the part about “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the young man took a handful of earth and dropped it into the grave. At the sound of the dirt pattering down on the coffin, Sherlock said, “Oh, for God’s sake,” drew his coat closer against the late October chill, and stalked toward the others. 

"This just isn’t _her_ , don’t you see? This isn’t….,” he stopped and looked around, suddenly at a loss for words. He just shook his head. 

“Really, Sherlock, control yourself,” Mycroft said. “We all know you will miss her, but…” 

Sherlock cut him off. “Oh, you do, do you? You barely knew her. And you didn’t even like her.” 

John turned around from his contemplation of who knows what and stepped closer to the little group around the grave. “Sherlock, you’re being unfair. Mycroft, thank you for arranging the service. That was kind of you.” 

Oh, dear, thought Martha. Sherlock won’t like John taking Mycroft’s…. 

“So now you’re taking Mycroft’s side?” Sherlock’s voice was bitter. “John, you loved her, too. You know she’d want something livelier than this… farce. A party. She would have wanted a party, not readings and organ music and pious nonsense from this… this...,” he gestured toward the young clergyman, scowling. “He didn’t even know her. He didn’t know a thing about her. She was a _stripper_ for Christ's sake,” Sherlock hissed that last sentence into the priest's face. Young Father Whatever-His-Name-Was looked offended, Martha thought. "She was quite a good one, by the way," Sherlock continued hotly, not backing down. John ducked his head, but not before Martha saw the smile on his face. Not Sherlock's area, she knew, but she appreciated the compliment. She wasn't always an old stick, after all. The priest was staring at Sherlock, clearly flummoxed. Sherlock was becoming more human, but mostly for the people he loved. Strangers still got the full-Sherlock. 

“Sherlock…,” Mycroft said, looking offended. 

John saw that Sherlock looked on the edge of tears. “Shut it, Mycroft,” said John. 

Martha put her hand on John’s arm. “Oh, John, go to him,” she whispered. He couldn’t feel her, couldn’t hear her, of course not. Then John looked down at his arm, a puzzled expression on his face. He looked around. Oh, thought Martha, excited. Maybe there are things I can do after all. John suddenly handed little Shae over to Molly, came right up to Sherlock, and put a hand on his arm. They exchanged a long look, and Sherlock stood a little straighter. 

Martha smiled. A bit like old times. And Sherlock was right about the party. It was a shame that she hadn’t lived until Halloween. She loved Halloween, and she had been planning on giving a little party. She had thought enough time had passed since Mary died. If she gave a party, John and Sherlock would have felt obligated to come. Maybe they would have talked to each other. 

“She was planning a Halloween party,” Molly said softly. “She asked me to help.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Such a dear, sweet thing. Martha had always thought so. 

“Then we’ll have a Halloween party,” said Sherlock. His voice lifted, quickened. “We’ll have a wake and get drunk and…” he stopped and swallowed. Martha patted his arm. Sherlock looked down at his coat sleeve. Sherlock hated parties, but he had loved _her_. 

Molly stepped closer to Sherlock and put a hand on his back. Good girl. Then little Shae reached out from within the circle of Molly’s arms and put a tiny hand on Sherlock’s cheek. He reached up and lightly touched the small hand. 

“It’s the Eve of All Saints, you know,” said John. He had been raised Catholic after all. “We’ll light candles, too. She was a saint to put up with us all those years. With you especially. Gunshots and criminals and body parts in the fridge.” 

Sherlock actually laughed, a small and shaky sound, but still a laugh. He cleared his throat. “A party then. You’ll all come? Not you,” he scowled at the priest. “You can go away now.” Mycroft's lips tightened at the rudeness, but he wisely said nothing. The priest closed his prayer book with a distinct thump, turned on his heel, and made off for the church. 

Then Mycroft spoke, digging his umbrella into the ground, looked at the tip. “Not me, of course. I’ll be going now.” 

“Of course you, Mycroft. Don't be ridiculous. You may be an arsehole, but you’re family. Part of her family by association.” 

Mycroft didn’t look up. 

“She’d want you to be there,” John said. Quite right, thought Martha. He was family. 

“Thank you,” said Mycroft, still looking at the ground. “It would be a privilege.” 

“So, Tuesday night, our … my flat,” Sherlock said. John’s lips tightened at that. Now he was the one looking at the ground. Sherlock hurried on. “I’ll get the wine, food….” 

“You and food?” John looked up, his tone teasing. 

“I’m a chemist, John. I think I can manage the food.” 

“I’ll bring whiskey and the candles,” said Mycroft. 

“Costumes.” Molly’s voice was firm. “You’ll all wear costumes. It’s what she would have wanted. She would have wanted us to do it up right, to have fun while we remember her.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shae has to wear a costume if I do.” He tickled the baby’s cheek. She giggled. 

“I’d already gotten her a bee costume,” said John. 

~~~~~  


Early the next morning, Martha visited John and Mary’s little semi-detached. John’s now. It was interesting. She found that if she just thought of someone, someone she loved, there she was with them. She had tried to talk to him while he was having his tea. He looked up, looked around, but never focused on where she was actually standing. Martha sighed. She concentrated and tried moving his tea-cup. Nothing. 

Suddenly Shae, sitting in her high-chair, looked at her. She laughed and pointed her little silver spoon (a gift from Mycroft) right at her. Made eye-contact and smiled. “Da-Da!” she said. 

John looked to where Shae was obviously pointing “What is it, pumpkin?” Shae banged the spoon on her tray. John smiled and looked back down at the paper. So Shae could see her, but John couldn’t. 

When John went in to take his shower, she had an idea. She had seen it in the show about the medium. Some dead people could write, either on paper or on a fogged bathroom mirror. She’d try that. She waited until the shower had been running a while. Didn’t want to see anything she shouldn’t. She concentrated and put her finger up to the mirror. Wrote an “H.” It worked! She continued, then stepped back satisfied. “He loves you.” Then she went back out to the kitchen to play with Shae. Eensy weensy spider. 

Suddenly the bathroom door opened. John was standing there, a towel around his waist, looking wildly around. He closed his eyes. Very, very softly he said, “Mrs. H? Are you….? Did you…?” He shook his head. He looked over at Shae. She pointed right at Martha. “Da!” she said. 

“Bloody hell,” said John. “Um…, Mrs. Hudson? Was that you? Did you…? Well, of course you did, that’s the only…. Don’t leave. I’ll be back.” He disappeared into the bathroom. Reappeared in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt. She heard the shower running again. 

“I know he loves me, Mrs. H. He’s my best friend.” 

Mrs. Hudson stamped her foot in frustration. What was it going to take? He had erased the words and the mirror had fogged again. Time to get explicit. 

She concentrated. “W…” John stared at the mirror. “Wants you. Idiot. Sex John.” “Wants” was underlined. 

“But Mary...,” John said. Mrs. Hudson smacked her palm against the mirror in frustration. When she drew back her hand, there was a clear print of her palm and fingers on the mirror. John gasped. John quickly rubbed it off with a towel. Turned up the hot water. Waited. 

Saw letters appear. “S.H.E….” “She would understand.” 

John put his hand to his mouth. Tears formed in his eyes. He slowly wiped the words off. Waited. 

“Love him.” 

He stared at the words. “I do. I do, Mrs. H. I will.” He stood looking at the words for a long time, not wiping them off. Good she thought, one down, one to go. 

~~~~~  


Luckily Sherlock showered much later than John. He was already in the shower when she… appeared, she guessed that was the word. She got right to work. 

She was standing in the lounge when the door to the bathroom banged open. Oh, dear, he wasn’t even wearing a towel. She thought fondly of Frank, something she hadn’t done in years. He was a terrible man, of course, but he had been just as beautiful as Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked carefully around him. Martha giggled. Sweet boy, she would miss him. He went back into the bathroom. He came back out after a few seconds with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Are you? Is it….? Blast...," he muttered. He took a deep breath. "Mrs. H?” 

So they went through the same routine, basically. Except Sherlock shook his head. “He blames me for her death. I didn’t stop Moran in time. He’ll never forgive me.” 

“I.D.I.O.T.” 

He smiled. “I know,” he said softly. “You knew I loved him before I did, didn’t you?” 

“T.O.O. R.I.G.H.T.” 

“He can’t want _me._ ” He wiped the mirror down, waiting for the steam to cover it. 

“L.O.V.E.S. W.A.N.T.S.” 

Sherlock stared at the mirror, the expression on his face a heartbreaking mixture of longing and despair and dawning hope. 

"He's not gay," Sherlock whispered to the mirror. 

She tried the hand slap again. Really, for a bright man Sherlock was being quite obtuse. He stepped back, eyes wide, at the sight of the clear hand-print on the mirror. 

"Fascinating," he said. This was fun, she thought. She underlined WANTS for good measure. 

“Oh, Hudders,” he said softly. “I love you. So much.” He placed his palm against her palm-print. She loved him, too. She kissed him on the cheek. His hand came up, almost absently, and covered the spot where what passed for her lips had touched. She had done what she could. Tomorrow the party. She got to attend her own wake. What fun! 

~~~~~ 

There was a knock on the door of 221B. The dashing pirate opened the door. Sherlock did cut quite the figure. Tight black trousers, leather boots up to the thigh, billowy white linen shirt open at the neck almost as far down as the wide leather belt around his waist. He had a red bandanna threaded through the his curls and an antique sword at his hip. He looked, Martha thought, disturbingly like Kevin Kline in _Pirates of Penzance_. She had always loved that movie. If only she had been thirty years younger and not dead, she might have given John a run for his money. She sighed. 

Mycroft stood on the other side of the door. He wore a short, spiky grey wig, his makeup was artfully applied, and he wore an impeccably tailored light grey suit. The suit had a skirt. Mycroft also wore a cream silk blouse and black Stuart Weitzman pumps. Martha recognized them and raised her eyebrows. Hideously expensive. 

Mycroft looked uncomfortable. He raised his chin. 

Sherlock blinked, then said, “Judi Dench. M. Skyfall." His voice softened, "Oh, Mycroft, she would... she would have absolutely loved it.” Suddenly Sherlock hugged his brother. Mycroft closed his eyes and smiled a tiny smile. His hands, even though he was carrying things in both, went around the pirate's back. Martha wondered how long it had been since they had hugged. Decades? 

The others surged around Mycroft, laughing and smiling. He blushed. He clutched two bottles of single malt scotch in one hand by their very expensive necks. He held these out to Greg. The small bag in the other hand he gave to John. “The candles. Anthea assures me that they are from the Church of Saints Mary and Martha on Cheltham Street and that they have been properly blessed." Mycroft never did anything by halves. 

There was a babble of talk and laughter as drinks were poured and candles lit. Little Shae sat on a blanket covered with jack-o-lanterns on the floor, pudgy in her black and yellow bee costume, playing with the skull from the mantelpiece. 

The harem girl and the Arab sheik sat close together on the sofa. They had obviously coordinated costumes, then. That made Martha very happy. So many things about tonight were making her happy. They toasted her memory, talked about how much they loved her and would miss her. They ate actual food that Sherlock had actually made. They told funny stories and touching stories and all got more than a bit drunk. It was a good party, she thought with satisfaction. 

Much later the candles were guttering down, the room shadowy in their flickering light. Martha sat… more or less… in John’s chair. The harem girl and the sheik were holding hands and talking quietly. Mycroft was down on the floor, his skirt hitched up and his pumps off, playing with Shae. The pirate and the greaser were standing in a corner, close but not quite touching. John had dressed in tight black jeans, a tight white t-shirt, a black motorcycle jacket, black boots. His hair was spiked up. She recognized it as a tribute to the boys of her young days, those wild young days. Those wild, young boys. She might be a ghost, but she remembered those lovely boys quite well. In the dim light, John looked just as heartbreakingly young and handsome. 

As she watched them, Martha saw him reach up and draw Sherlock’s head down down. Sherlock's arms went around him.They looked at each other a long moment, then they kissed. Slowly, softly, sweetly. Martha sighed. Now she could die happy, if she weren’t already dead. About time to go, then. She was ready. 

“John. Everyone. Look, look….” It was Mycroft’s voice. He was standing. He had just let go of Shae’s small hands. She was swaying, balancing. Then she took three steps toward John. “Da!” she said, sat down suddenly, turned, and smiled directly at Mrs. Hudson. 

"Oh my god,” said John, “she’s walking! That’s…. Sherlock, it’s her first steps. Here. That’s…,” 

"Perfect," said Sherlock, love and joy shining in his eyes. His face was quite breathtakingly beautiful. 

Martha leaned a cheek against her hand and smiled. She was tired now. It did take energy to stay here. This wasn't her place anymore. It had been the most wonderful party, but now it was time to go. She watched them for one more moment as they gathered around Shae and Mycroft, all talking at once. One of Sherlock's white hands rested on John's shoulder, John was scooping Shae up…. 

Then light blazed above her, blotting out the beloved faces and the guttering candles. She turned toward it, still smiling.


End file.
